Dear Boys

1:16 pm · category: House Calls, Kids Are All Right, The

The boys have added another member to the band, bringing the total to six. If they add another member on by their next visit, I can get a fancy dress and sing to birds. (I already assigned appropriate names to these six. I really pushed for a keyboard player with severe allergies, but I bet they don’t heed my suggestion.)

Actually getting to the gig was a feat in and of itself.* And once I was there, it was uncomfortably apparent I didn’t belong. (Thus lending credence to all my prior lame excuses for not showing up at their shows.) There is no reason for a 32-year-old woman who spent 12 hours on the clock dealing with insolent CEOs while wearing hells and a business suit to spend an evening in a dank, subterranean outpost (venue name: The Cellar) with a bunch of teenagers on a Thursday night. I slipped in and stood in a corner (which, incidentally, smelled like cat litter) trying to become blinvisible, only to have a 17-year-old boy accost me for not paying the $5 cover charge upon my arrival 15 minutes earlier. Of course, then he couldn’t change my $20 bill. (And where was he when I arrived? I suspect he was snickering at what he thought were double entendres in the latest issue of Highlights.)

After the show I learned that the band’s merch guy was slated to become the new guitar player in September. That’s because the current guitarist has decided to become a full-time elementary art teacher, which totally gets my respect. (Casual readers will assume I’m being snarky. They can bite my ass.)

The next two days I had a mighty nice time with the boys, although I spent over $250 on them. (That’s a chunk of change for me to drop in a weekend, especially if it’s not on home improvement or auto maintenance. Again, I am very old.) Two of the boys had asked about watching Buffy (I got them hooked on their last visit.), but we ended up watching Freaks and Geeks. (I might have found a new TV obsession. That was some good stuff.) So for two days we watched DVDs and ate a lot of delivery.

There’s something very not right about a 32-year-old woman watching TV in her 6×5 living room with six college-aged boys, but it feels perfectly normal when you’re doing it. I fall somewhere between a queen (“Would you get me a Sprite, please?”) and a mother (“For the love of God, who’s up next in the shower? You all have to have one before you go, because you reek.”).

Twenty minutes before the boys left, four of them lined up at the bathroom door. The stench permeated my home for the next six hours, despite the fact that I gave them a pack of matches. And that’s how they left me.

Except it wasn’t. Because when I entered my bedroom two hours after their departure, I found all the blankets neatly folded and my bed made. And they’d taken two pieces of ribbon and formed them into the shape of a heart on my pillow.

Dear boys.

*Short story: The friend who was supposed to go with me cancelled thirty minutes after the show had started. I locked up the house and got in my car, only to realize I’d picked up my work keys instead of my personal keys. I jimmied open a window, but I couldn’t get into it because I’m too short. So I “borrowed” a cooler from my neighbor’s garage and boosted myself in the window. Then, about half-way to the venue, I got thirsty. When I pulled into the parking lot I realized I’d left my wallet at work. So I drove 15 miles back to Magnolia, picked up my wallet, and drove to El Dorado. I arrived in time to hear the last three songs.

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